


Fait Accompli

by Corner_Stone



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Banshee Moira O'Deorain, F/F, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Storms, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27721640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corner_Stone/pseuds/Corner_Stone
Summary: "You know I don't fare well in the rain." She begins, casting a low voice to match the tone of her causal distaste, the moon on her shoulders, the ceiling low, the smudge of night in the backdrop.Even from afar, Angela smells the rain on her clothes, and resents how much she worries about seeing her all mussed up like this, looking like a deity who had just risen out of the sea during the break of a storm.--That in which Angela knows of three woes; death, war, and a decadent banshee who won't leave her alone.
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Fait Accompli

_She says, "See if it's still raining_

_I'm not dressed for it" And "If you loved me-"_

_And I interrupt to receive the scowl and stare,_

_But still decided to stop her[there](https://youtu.be/yJkts8ud6uA)._

_\--_

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Her trance breaks in a quiet snap, and her kitchen is nothing like the silent box of the operation table, the slip over flesh, the curdle of hisses that chambers in the back of her mind. Angela pauses, slowly lowering the teaspoon onto the flat of the marble counter until she holds nothing in her hands. 

It takes a few seconds for her to relax her shoulders again, the camomile steam threading through her frigid fingertips as she hovers them over the warm liquid, breathing in once, then twice. It smells like leaf and honey. 

The wind hushes. The taps on her window come again, this time a little louder than the ones before. 

Without much fuss, she pads from the kitchen to the living room, her bare feet sliding over the lavender perennial design of the carpet, following the twists of the vines habitually until she rounds the plank of the coffee table. 

And although the suspicions of a snapping branch induced by a rainstorm skid through the back of her mind, she mentally crushes the sliver of optimism that tells her that she will finally get a pleasant evening alone. There weren't many of those nowadays. 

The surface of the window is smattered by a layer of cold, wet moisture, and she pushes the bar of the pane upwards until the crevice opens midway, letting the scent of rain rush into her living room. A spatter of water sluices past her cheek, and she flinches at the cold brush. 

And for a moment, she takes a step back, and listens to the earth drown in a patter of rain, catching the eye of the moon, now engulfed in the mist of nightfall's mist, present as she stood now- peering into the open stars and distant satellites. Her eyes hardly adjust to the dark. She sees movement. A whisp. 

The wind sings and trembles. Angela waits by the window impatiently. She crosses her arms over her chest, huddling against herself for warmth, the fabric of her sweater patchy and strewn by natural wear. The rain is soft, more of a drizzle than anything. But it remains insistently cold, and she ducks her head just to avoid any more stray droplets from landing on her face. Nonetheless, she tastes the rainwater on her lips. Salty, like ocean froth.

Without much of a warning, a small shadow swoops in, perching on her window sill, digging it's sharp talons into the bone of the frame's clutch. As it stirs from the blur of it's darting movement, the shape of a crow becomes more refined, plumage darker than night itself, feathers dipping into cosmic monochrome. Carefully, it opens up its wings, basking in the light, safe under the warmth of the lamp, unaffected by the other's close proximity.

Angela frowns a little as she wipes the moisture off her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater, watching a trail of water leak from the open junction of the window, to a petal on the carpet. It's like letting an ailment in. 

"Finally got sick of aimlessly wandering?" She tiredly asks as she turns on her heel and traces her way back to the kitchen, resenting the cold air that is now circumventing throughout her living room. It made her fingers and toes numb. 

She then halts momentarily, standing on the border of the two rooms, thoughtlessly dragging her fingertips over the empty walls of the kitchen entrance as she glances over her shoulder. 

There is no pattern to trace, so she draws a constellation with what little canvas of a thought she can construct. "You rely too heavily on my goodwill. It's getting rather exhausting, _Moira_." 

As she sifts back into the kitchen, she doesn't hear an answer. Not that she expects one. Instead, her mind remains occupied on other more conspicuous matters, like her pending paperwork, and the total amount of sleep she would get tonight, which usually wasn't more than five hours. 

Some of those hours were spent deliberating her thoughts to the ceiling of her bedroom, quietly tessellating the pieces of her day, the clinical hours of daybreak, the cots being dragged over with dabbles of dried blood and the persistent weeping echoing down through the hospital halls, like a haunting ricochet with no origin point. It's everywhere, like a disease. 

Her living room isn't big by any means, the walls a mute brown, the shelves absent of any personal decorations or ornaments, besides a few photographs involving coworkers and small workplace gatherings. There were a lot of books, mostly academia and clinical studies, some with her own accredited title in the assortment. 

She finds order in simplicity, the coziness of a place she can call home at the end of a long shift at the hospital, even if it all feels quite lonely. The wooden table dones dark rings of tangible wearing, and she always minds her ankles for accidental splinters, carefully placing the tea on the table before settling down on the couch. It creaks with her weight, and she shifts herself back onto the sofa, raising her gaze to the other creature in the room with her. 

The crow is no longer there. The window is now closed, but the curtains take a minute to settle into place, drifting formlessly against the stilled room. In its place, bestows a strikingly tall figure- a woman. 

The woman brushes the underside of her nose, water dripping off the tips of her red hair, coppery and dull under the wet moonlight. She has a sea of freckles on her face, a trait of hers that Angela recognizes all too well, making her look childlike at times, vulnerable under the calms of her mismatched gaze. The clothes of her plain black garment cling to her skin, the silky fibre plummeting every lank of her tall body. She's dripping, but not shivering. 

"You know I don't fare well in the rain." She begins, casting a low voice to match the tone of her causal distaste, the moon on her shoulders, the ceiling low, the smudge of night in the backdrop. 

Even from afar, Angela smells the rain on her clothes, and resents how much she worries about seeing her all mussed up like this, looking like a deity who had just risen out of the sea during the break of a storm. 

The doctor in her is always alert, always waiting for a reason to flock towards someone in need, no matter how unprepared and caught off guard she is. And at the given moment, she is still in her pajamas, holding a mug full of lukewarm camomile tea that has now surrendered its warmth. 

"Most people don't." She replies, eyeing her own distorted reflection on the surface of her drink, watching the liquid ripple with each subtle movement she makes. 

Moira tilts her head up and smoothes her damp hair back, a few red strands still clinging to her high cheekbones. "Aren't you going to offer me tea?"

_The audacity._

Exasperation tilts her lips downwards. "You can make it yourself." Angela answers flatly, retracting the mug from her face and scrunching her nose at the realization that her tea is now cold. All she can think of is frozen honey, and the thrumming of the rain outside her window, threatening to nest out a storm. 

"Your bedside manners are quite awful today." 

Cots. 

Patients. 

Hospitals. 

"Oh, I'm aware." She brings her knees up to her chest, fingernails softly scratching the fabric of the couch, picking at the little threads that poke out of the bumpy surface. The room is awfully quiet, except for the faint pattering of the rain, and the shy cracklings of thunder trickling from the skies. "But that's never stopped you from showing up at my house uninvited, has it?" 

Moira then looks at her, seemingly unfazed by Angela. She's tested the waters too many times before. 

Very languidly, she dissolves the buttons of her sticky gown, starting from the silky black lace on the nape of her neck, which divides down the expanse of her back, until the garment unravels to the floor with a soft thump. And just like that, her clothes were gone, her skin riddled with gooseflesh, almost glistening. 

"Only because you allow me to come in. I have reason to suspect that you find enjoyment in my company." Moira replied softly, her accent rich and thick, the corner of her lips twitching upwards. 

She has a sharp figure that beguiles Angela, every edge, dip, and curve of her body pale as the lick of an ocean wave, the foam that bridges land and water. 

Moira always looked oceanborn. 

And as much as the less sensible side of her wants to look, to anchor her gaze onto the soft cursive of her bare bones, her eyes linger on the spot between her feet and the wet gown sloshed on the carpet, entertained by nothing. Her sight then slips to her tea as she huffs to herself, watching her own world slowly swerve into honey. 

"Don't flatter yourself. I deal with enough tragedies as it is." She replies as she returns the mug to her lips, enduring the dull taste of the tea in order to invent a distraction for herself. "And I'm not going to tend to your broken wing...again." 

It was more like a metaphyseal fracture, in her human form. It healed in two weeks time, an unnaturally fast speed for a grown woman who barely ate, and spent her days snatching books from Angela's shelves whenever she could. 

She felt the cold begin to settle. She pretends not to notice how the flush on Moira skin rises with each second, water trickling onto the carpet, fading into dark spots that would follow her every movement. 

It's hard to ignore Moira. Her ghostly, bewildering aura. And even after nearly fifteen years of getting used to her constant interruptions, she still manages to find the patience to let her into her home. Her random pit stops. The quiet, avian movements. 

Moira makes a noise, something between a cough and laugh that rings out like a chime in her ears, before she quietly disappears into the corridors, setting behind a trail of wet footsteps that leaves Angela cringing inwardly. As always, she has no consideration for her poor, abused carpet. But the mold and mildew were the least of her problems. 

\--

The showerhead drips. It echoes slowly, and each water droplet that collapses onto the slippery floors sounds heavy and clear. 

She finds Moira in the washroom, wearing lounging clothes that make her look youthful and human, her skin properly flushed by the afterset of a warm bath. She stretches her arms over her head, lazily tilting her head to the side, and peeking a blue eye towards the door. 

Angela has never been subtle in her footsteps. She knows how perceptive the other woman is, and like a bird of prey with keen peripherals, she masks an uncanny sensitivity to her environment. And somehow, she suspects it's mutual- because she can _feel_ it when Moira's near. 

It's visceral. Everytime Moira flits by, she can feel it in the marrow of her bones, the very oxygen she breathes. 

She steps a little closer, the doorway framing her on all sides. 

"I never really understood how you can live like that. Unaffected by the knowledge of who lives and dies." She swallows, her eyebrows furrowing in the slight hopes that her serious tone will earn her a tangible answer. "You're always so...impartial." 

Stoic, unperturbed, like the trenches of the deepest oceans. They'd had this conversation too many times. Moira blinks over at her, and draws a breath. 

"I'm not a clairvoyant, or an oracle." She starts as she glances at the other woman in the doorway, animating her fingers thoughtlessly as she composes a short beat of silence. "I've simply...made amends with death. As a human with a mortal lifespan, you should too." 

"I'm a doctor, Moira. I know more about death and loss than you'll ever understand. The only thing you've amended is your own selfishness." She snaps, unrestrained. Her nails callously dig into her palms, burrowing half moons into her skin with each second that passes. 

She's visibly upset. And she wants Moira to see it. Maybe it was a provocation to get answers. An excuse for an argument, one that the other woman could and _would_ mercilessly prolong, if given an opening. Because they both have a tendency to implode, and every word is a matchstick ready to ignite. 

And she expects noise. Sharp words. Something she can kill with fire. But nothing comes out of Moira's lips. She doesn't even flinch as she looks back at her, mouth pressed into a straight line, eyes quiet and uncomfortably enigmatic, as if she dwelled in two separate universes. 

It's human. Angela doesn't see it coming, and her chest aches unbearably so. Moira moves closer, and fluidly brushes past her, like a thief trying to blend into a crowd, something resembling culpability and denial in her body language. 

But Angela doesn't allow her to escape. She grabs a fistful of her sleeve, and pulls weakly, digging her nails into the cotton of her loose dark velvet cardigan (a stupid, unconventional gift that was too big for Angela), bracing herself for Moira's inevitable look of disdain. There's no yank, no sudden pull. She looks down at their feet, but she avoids stepping any closer, blonde hair curtaining her face as she opens her mouth again. 

"I just need you to tell me...who I'm going to lose next." She murmurs faintly to herself, her fingers tighter around the other's wrist, not letting Moira pull away. It's not a forceful grip. But it's firm. 

"I thought we agreed to not discuss it anymore." Moira answers softly, and her voice mimics the calmness of water, still and profound, carrying an endless depth. Angela leans in closer, and thinks she might sink if she lets go. 

"I...I can save them this time. I can do it, just tell me who it is." Angela pleads softly, tilting her face up again until she can peer at Moira's expression, noticing the quiet crease of her eyebrows as the light of her room illuminates the delicate features of her face. 

"Angela, this... isn't something you can change." Moira explains and lets out an exasperated breath, her mirth now completely gone, and replaced by a more solemn and serious tone. "Any attempts to disrupt the balance of death will end in futility. They're all… a lost cause." 

_A lost cause._

"You don't know that." Angela furrows her brows, and she wishes she could level herself with Moira to be seen as her equal, to pose a stronger presence. 

"Ah, but I do." Moira replies, and her voice glides in that condescending manner that Angela's stomach churn. 

Angela's fingers unfurl, but she doesn't let go. 

She can't. 

"You've never tried."

Moira delicately pushes her hand away. 

"But you have."

"I'm not a banshee."

"It doesn't matter what I am." Moira says cooly, ducking slightly as she exits to the small corridor. "I have no control over what happens. Neither of us wield that sort of power." 

It was a jarring testament. Angela stays quiet, her mouth closing as she begins to suspect that the wall might offer more useful insight than the person -- or creature -- in front of her. 

A sharp, argumentative side of her begins to seeth into her throat, hot. It burns, like a sun caught in her tongue, ready to lash. She wishes she had the strength to continue this moral quarrel, to tell Moira that she's wrong, that humans have the capacity to help and save one another in the time of destruction, war, and heartache. The empathy that runs blue through the veins, the heart, the mind, and gives her a reason to keep her hands steady. 

But Moira _isn't_ human. 

She wouldn't understand that. 

Angela tilts her head away from Moira, in a way that exerts frustration. She feels her presence, warm-blooded and real, but it isn't enough to make her want to submit to indignation. Not tonight. Her hands drop to her side, the coldness numbing the tips of her fingers. 

"Goodnight, Moira." She bids, before turning to her own room. She tries not to sound defeated. Regardless, she's dry. 

It's still raining outside, and she catches nothing from Moira's end of the curt hallway as she slips into the guest room. 

\--

A rattle follows a click, and the front door unhinges open with ease. The lights are already on, and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the usual lighting. The air is thick, alive. 

Moira. 

Angela ducks her head as she enters the house, a few blonde bangs falling over her eyes, ponytail slacked and frazzled by the winds. She tacks the umbrella in itself and tosses her keys aside, careful not to let the rain seep in. Her clothes reek of a cocktail of antiseptic chemicals, now with the added grace of mud and dirt to scour her tracks as she shucks off her boots. 

Despite the strange state of her house, she takes her time to pry her coat off, disappointed at the discovery of a missing top button. It must've gotten swept away by the rain, possibly resting in the bottom of a sewer tunnel, never to return to her again. Not an unusual recurrence for her. 

It takes a moment before the smell of fresh produce hits her nose. It wafts out of the kitchen, like an invitation. She halts her movements and blinks, perking her head up as she hangs her coat half-hazardly near the door. 

"Moira?" She asks, turning the corner and spotting a tall frame looming over her stove, the flickering flames mirroring the soft mellow ginger of her hair. 

"Fáilte abhaile." The other woman dismissively replies as she retains concentration on whatever she's doing, back turned, shoulders moving, the sleeves of her black dress shirt rolled up, exposing pale forearms. 

"Are you ...cooking?" Angela asks, stunned. 

"So it seems." She replies as her long fingers grip the knife steadily, cutting the potatoes in a clean and rhythmic fashion. The slices tip over as she moves horizontally, until they're splayed in perfect measures over the cutting board, and Angela takes a second to admire the proportions. "The air isn't dense enough for me to execute my usual flight patterns, therefore I'm temporarily incapacitated." 

"Incapacitated. _Right_." Angela muses to herself as she drops her bag on the floor and leans her elbows on the counter, watching Moira's hands bid the slices into a pot of boiling hot water, her wrist curving at a smooth angle. She's methodical, like a surgeon. 

Angela gestures at the table. "So...did you go out and buy all these ingredients yourself?" 

Moira peers over at her, a hint of curiosity laced in her voice. "Your refrigerator was empty." 

"I don't cook."

"Pity. Not all of us have a refined dietary palate." Moira causally comments as she maneuvers over to chop the spring onions, a few red hairs fall to her cheeks as she faces down, back somewhat slouched. She's too tall for Angela's kitchen, and it's an endearing image that perhaps quells the uneasiness built up from their previous night's argument. 

Angela scoffs, but it's half-hearted. "At least I don't eat worms."

Moira slices a patch, and throws her a look. "You do realize that I'm not an ordinary corvidae, right?" 

"Well, you do squawk like one." Angela childly retorts, earning a soft huff from Moira, who's cheeks have gone visibly warm. She goes back to focusing on chopping up the vegetables, staring at the wooden cutting board with a newfound focus. 

It's strange, seeing Moira embrace such a domestic role so seamlessly. Of course, cooking for the both of them wasn't a natural act born of care or love (or at least that's what Angela assumes), but simply a byproduct of spontaneous boredom on the taller woman's part. 

But it was still nice. Angela eases into the counter with her elbows propped up, chin on palm, quietly observing the way Moira's knife halves the onions and cabbages into a lovely culinary display. It's somehow familiar, as if she's seen it done before. Articulate and taut. Rehearsed. 

She shrugs off the feeling, and her gaze returns to Moira's face. Her own lips curl into a little smirk. "Moira, are you flustered?"

"I- absolutely not." She blurts out too quickly, the sounds of rhythmic chops accompanying her little moment of silence. 

Angela chuckles to herself, moving around the kitchen to set up the ceramic plates on the table she hardly uses. She only has a few. Coming home late from the hospital allows her to neglect preparing her own meals. Let alone, not having someone to share them with has made the whole ritual an inconvenience in itself. 

The plates clink. Her eyes trace over the symmetrical blue patterns of the ceramic, all spades and angles. 

"I was asked to be a speaker at an opening ceremony, on behalf of the Regional Reconstruction Committee. They're opening a new medical ward in Schöneiche." 

"You're traveling to Germany during the cusp of winter?" Moira asks as she raises her brows, hands moving to slice up the kale, which was rolled aside next to the onions. The sounds of laminate steel on wood echoing from the kitchen, this time more subdued. 

Angela hesitates a breath. Her eyes linger on the napkins for a moment, placing the kitchenware neatly on both ends of the table. "I haven't responded to their invitation." 

Moira looks up, her movements slowing down momentarily. "You should attend." 

"I can't afford to leave my post here." 

"You've made that clear." Moira grunts as she resumes her movements, transparently avoiding last night's argument. "But given your open reputation of being such a staunch humanitarian, your attendance might careen investors towards supporting your cause." 

Angela shakes her head. "I'm needed in other places." 

Moira doesn't respond, but the creases in the corner of her mouth indicate a slight frown. 

The water pot boils the potatoes. She tosses the rest of the vegetable and meat portions into the saucepan, veering it together with a few stirs. The wooden spoon scrapes the saucepan, but not oppressively so; and she takes her time, adjusting the flame to her calculations. It smells divine, and Angela finds her stomach rumbling in anticipation. 

"It's clear that you're _important_ to them. They see you as a symbol of resilience." 

Angela allows herself to smile a little at that, surprised to hear such sincerity from the other woman. She takes this moment of vulnerability to prompt her further. She moves into the kitchen, gesturing at the cabinet door. Moira's body is blocking her path, but it doesn't bother her. 

Catching onto what she wants, Moira produces a glass from the cupboard, and hands it over to Angela. 

"And you?"

Moira turns her head again, still stirring with one hand. "Come again?"

Angela takes it, and flickers on the tap filtration, filling it with cold water. 

"How do you perceive me?" 

Moira tips her head up, feigning thoughtfulness. She looks dashing when she's in the mood for banter, too many years caught up in the humdrum static of their relationship, the quiet duality of her mismatched eyes. There's a very soft youth to her, underneath the veneer of her freckles, the default scowl she'll wear when concentrated on something, such as cooking. 

But for now, she's relaxing. Maybe even _content_. 

"A bundle of overworked stress." She says, nearly deadpan. 

Angela nearly chokes on her water. "Wait, _really?_ " 

"Ready to snap at the slightest inconvenience." 

A cough resounds into a faint laugh. "Moira!" 

The redhead turns her head to the side, but the smile on her lips is impossible to hide. She flickers off the stove, and her hand stretches with ease to grab a potato masher, sloshing it with the remaining slab of butter that was still intact, dousing it with cold milk. 

Moira whips the butter and milk, and it unwinds under her motions. "I think you try too hard to carry the weight of the world sometimes. It's irrational to concern yourself with such an impossible endeavor." 

The way Moira mixes the ingredients, the milk, the vegetables, into a singular consistency, remains fluid and perfect. An apron is all she is missing, much to Angela's disappointment. 

Angela unties her tight ponytail, her now loose hair falling down onto her shoulders. "Yet somehow, I manage." She grumbles to herself, cuffing the tie around her wrist. 

"You do." Moira answers softly, and she spills everything together into a final culmination. 

The bowl is hot when Moira places it on the table, and any semblance of unfamiliarity between the two vanishes, like a routine. And even when she sits, Moira is still cumbersome and tall, prodding the fork and knife with a steady hand, exuding a distinct form of etiquette. The black nails on her right hand are long, thin, and feminine, like the talons of a bird. 

Angela soon follows. She dips her head, and takes a fork into her mouth. Her eyes light up and she looks at Moira with a mixture of delight and curiosity. "Mm, what is this?" 

Moira's lips twitch into a smile. "Colcannon." 

"It's very good, Moira."

Moira forks her food pensively. 

"I haven't cooked in many years." 

The light in the room is dim, the curtains pried open to reveal a dazzle of light rain that falls and trickles into the mud of the earth; and she silently listens to it’s qualms, to Moira's deep voice, her calming aura. What the thunder gives, the storm keeps. 

Angela blows a little on her food, the potatoes still hot. "I find that hard to believe." 

\--

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Friends: Moira is the type either wearing a super extravagant outfit or she's completely naked. There's no inbetween. 
> 
> Me: bet. 
> 
> \--
> 
> AN: Also, I have not written a longfic since I was like...sixteen. It's been three years since then, so I'm very rusty in the writing department. I am also a full time college student. Please be patient with my writing speed! :]


End file.
